Birth Night


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Back to my childhood backyard.

Whispering through willow leaves, leaving summer's green gold, as they lie down paling, paler crisping in the fall for winter under the snow.

Opening up sky views through the skinny iced willow branches hardly visible in the wan bright light of winter's noon.

Weeping willow sheds its tear leaves completely by the midnight of the winter solstice, wiggles its root toes way below seeds in the earth.

Telling (drumming really through earth reverberation) magma of the messages from Sagittarius come twinkling in with starlight.

Written on July 6, 1995

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